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Country fairs and festivals abound throughout New England's rolling countryside in the fall. Katherine and her husband, Paul, (far right) chairpersons for St. John of the Cross' 2001 Apple Harvest Festival, join in the fun with past chairperson and dear friend, Tom Savage.
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Whenever Jesus wished to express the Father's great love, He created parables taken from the countryside and its people. Camels, goats, sheep, weather, farmers, widows, landlords- all of these had a place in the stories Jesus used to convey the Father's great love and faithfulness. I believe that Jesus still speaks to us in parables through the everyday people and events that He places around us.
Autumn In The Connecticut Hills:
Autumn in our dear village is my favorite time of year. The hillsides are ablaze with color-the deep mahogany's of the swamp maples, butternut yellow of the hardly oaks, crimsons and bright burnt oranges of the maples. I wait expectantly each year for the first sign of autumn and find it hard not to abandon my writing in lieu of slow walks along back country roads with praise ever present on my lips for God's magnificent creation.
But for the first time in five decades, this particular early autumn held no magic for me. Instead it was filled with anxiety and fear.
On September 25th, 1999, I was up before first light, dressed and ready for my walk along the dirt roads that weave throughout the hillsides and riverbanks by my home. My morning walks are the well from which I draw upon God's strength, drinking in the richness of the beauty that surrounds our gentle countryside. Under the vastness of an open sky and along lanes where horses graze in pastures the color of a faded dollar bill, I talk to God. And alone together amongst the glory of His creation, we plan my day and review the needs of those He has placed around me. It is also a time when I praise Him for the many gifts He has strewn along my path-dear friends, a wonderful community, Christian fellowship, the privilege of living in this great country and always, the gift of grace which allows me to enter before His throne.
But this day I was not alone. Fear marched behind me, nipping at my heels. Today marked my husband, Paul's, sixty-fourth birthday and the beginning of an inner countdown. In 365 days, Paul would reach retirement age; yet, unless God provided us with a miracle, retirement would never be an option. Eight years ago, Paul had fallen on a construction job and was seriously hurt. Since we had no health insurance, we were forced to sell our home and cash in our life's savings to pay for his medical needs.
The months and years that followed were hard, but God was faithful. In fact, it became a time of miracles. We discovered that when you have no resources of your own, God's provisions and intervention on your behalf cannot be missed. We often stood amazed as God provided for us in ways that truly were "exceedingly, abundantly, more than we could ever ask or hope for".
One of those provisions was a beautiful little rental house with a magnificent view of woodlands that sat on the bank overlooking the Pomperaug River. We treasured this little haven, and even though it was not ours, we planted gardens and decorated all the rooms, filling it with my quilts and paintings and a host of family and friends who magically seemed to fit no matter what the number.
We had lived here for six years and had come to feel it was truly our home, but suddenly, we had received a phone call from our landlord stating that he could no longer afford to keep the property and was placing it on the market. We would have to move.
This news highlighted our precarious financial state of affairs. We had no home of our own, no retirement funds and no prospect of ever regaining that which we had lost. The future seemed uncertain and bleak as I envisioned the remaining years of our lives cast about like nomads.
"Dear Lord," I prayed out loud as I started up a sharp hill. "What is to become of us?"
My pace slowed as I bent into the steep incline. It seemed a fitting metaphor for the spiritual mountain that had been placed in my path.
I was intent on my troubles, not the countryside and would have completely missed the incredible sight that had waited for me just above the rise, if it hadn't been for the noise. The caw of hundreds of crows suddenly shattered the quiet morning air and when I looked up, I saw birds perched everywhere-tree tops, branches, telephone wires, fence posts. A dozen more were gathered on the ground, surrounding a bird with a broken wing.
My heart welled with compassion and my mind frantically searched for something I could do to help. I knew if I tried to pickup the injured bird with my bare hands, I would be badly bitten. The other alternative was a 30 minute walk back to my house to gather supplies and then return by car. But this plan was just as unworkable. By the time I returned, the crows circling around the fallen bird would have pecked him to death in an instinctive effort to force him to take flight. I bowed my head and prayed.
"Dear Lord, you know how much I love animals and how I hate to see any of them in pain. Please Lord send help".
As soon as I opened my eyes, a car came up over the rise and pulled in alongside the injured bird. A woman dressed in a nurse's uniform quickly jumped out and shouted across to me.
"The crow has a broken wing. I need to get him to the bird clinic over in Bethlehem (a neighboring town). Come, lend me a hand."
I dashed across the road as the woman opened up her trunk and began to shift through its contents. She pulled out a large plastic bin and blanket and handed it to me.
"I'll pick up the crow and put him in the bin," she said, pulling on a pair of heavy work gloves. "Then you place the blanket over him. If he can't see, he won't be frightened."
I went about doing as I was instructed-chasing the others crows away from the fallen bird then holding the bin steady as she carefully placed the injured bird inside, threw the blanket on top, then plunked him down in the back sear of her car.
"Thanks!" she shouted, as she hopped into the driver's seat and started the engine. Minutes later, both she and the injured crow were speeding down the country lane on route to medical help.
I resumed my walk and covered another hundred yards or so before I stopped and turned back in that direction. Wasn't it amazing how this woman had suddenly appeared seconds after I had offered up a prayer?
Then I heard my Father's voice….
God had sent me a living parable. I had stood witness to His incredible faithfulness to an injured bird and a prayer uttered in faith. If God could send a woman at 5:30 in the morning, along a deserted country lane, who had everything that was needed to attend to an injured bird's need and knew where to take it for help, why was I worried about retirement funds? The God who had strung together all these events to meet the needs of a fallen bird could certainly provide whatever was necessary to answer our needs. And He did.
At that moment, fear took flight and a wonderful sense of peace filled my spirit. With a new lightness to my step I continued on my walk, having left the heavy burden of fear along a country lane.
Over the next few days, He sent the idea for a novel about faith and a small New England town which would later be called "A Miracle for St. Cecilia's". And although I was a first time author with absolutely no connections within the publishing world, He went before me, first by providing a top literary agent, then acceptance by the second largest publishing house in the world. Not only had God restored what we had lost, He had provided for us with an abundance that still amazes me.
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